


Notes From the Bottom of the Bottle

by blak_cat



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2543864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blak_cat/pseuds/blak_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joaquín convinces María and Manolo to go out one night. And Manolo reveals more than he intended about how he died. Requested by prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes From the Bottom of the Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfills the prompt Manolo drunkenly reveals that he asked Xibalba to kill him to Joaquín and María

"I insist."

"Oh, you insist? That makes it different."

"Be nice, Manolo," María said.

Two weeks after the wedding and the official point where everyone decided they could move on with their lives through rubble and the wedding upset of the century, Joaquín now fitted with black eye patch, wanted to take Manolo and María out for the night. Manolo disagreed, citing the fact that he was no longer a rambunctious bachelor.

"To a bar María? A bar?" Manolo said.

"Yes, those mythical places I of course have no knowledge about being a proper lady," she said, crossing her arms. "Come on, Manolo, it's been ten years since Three Amigos have been together without fighting or a god intervening or—"

"Someone dying?" Manolo added. María was not overly impressed with that one.

"Considering how things went," Joaquín said, attempting to save his friend from a deadly glare. "I actually don't think we've ever been together without fighting or gods intervening."

"It's just, the bars in towns are crawling with creeps—"

"Yes, you and the Rodríguez brothers were among those regular creeps for quite some time. Afraid to air your dirty laundry to your wife, Manny? Or bar tabs?" Joaquín gave him a small shove.

"No," he said, his face turning red and María stifling a giggle as she grabbed his arm. "I just think that, it might not be the best place for—plenty of men in town would be very…happy to see you there."

"Jealous already? Manolo no one's even offered to buy her a drink yet!" Joaquín laughed.

María rolled her eyes and tugged on his arm, pulling him aside for a moment. Joaquín made himself busy by adjusting his eye patch in the mirror.

"It will be fun, Manolo," she said, placing a warm palm on his cheek. "We don't have to stay long, but Joaquín feels lonely. He feels unwanted now. We should go out with him."

"It just wouldn't be my first choice of location," Manolo sighed.

"Please? It can be my wedding gift."

"Okay, you cannot have this, and a room for Chuy, and nightly story readings for a wedding gift, pick one," he said.

She giggled and pulled herself on her tiptoes and placed a light but lingering kiss onto his mouth. When she lowered back down her other hand filled in the empty space on his other cheek.

"You like when I read you stories," she said.

"Sí."

In the end, Manolo gave in to the mob mentality and he hid his groan when Joaquín chose Tres Gatos as their destination for the evening and he swore Joaquín was doing it on purpose. He shot his friend a look over María's head and Joaquín shrugged. Manolo played in this bar often with the Rodríguez brothers, he'd often snuck out in the middle of the night and hoped his father never found out.

He felt a hand tuck into his own and reminded himself to look relaxed. His life was seedy. He lacked María's European, refined upbringing as well as Joaquín's illustrious family name. The Sánchez's were bullfighters, not wealthy, they were rowdy, they gambled, they drank often. The one saving grace was their showmanship in the arena. But María's hand reminded him she knew this already, she chose it anyway.

Manolo at least got his way with a seat in the back corner of the bar, from the band and the crowds that shuffled between them and the wall of alcohol. Joaquín ordered a round of mezcal and Manolo decided it was best to throw back as much and as quickly as possible.

"Regale us, Manny," Joaquín said, putting his glass back down in the wood of the table. "How'd you find your way back to us?"

"I told you already," he said.

Well, he'd given them both an outline of the events. He sought the help of La Muerte, he made a deal with Xibalba, he won and was granted life. He'd seen his mother. He told them of the bet the gods placed on them (María had not been overly thrilled with that piece of information). He hadn't gone into detail beyond that. There hadn't been time for it. María insisted they married before someone took him from her again and they were so enamored with every detail of the life they spent apart since children that Manolo's escapades in the world below fell into the back of their minds. And, he suspected, she'd rather forget the 24-hour period between her acceptance of his proposal and their marriage.

With that in mind, he slid his glance over to María, surprisingly done her drink before any of them. Her face was not overtly unhappy but some of the mirth she'd been brimming over with only moments ago had dissipated. Still, she looked curious, interested.

"Details, Manny," he said. "You can't just say you made a deal with the ruler of the underworld and leave it there. You know I love a good story."

"You like telling stories."

"And now I'm giving someone else the rare chance to outdo my own stories. Let's hear it Manolo."

He ordered them another round and against his better judgment, Manolo quickly dug into his glass, determined to deplete it.

"Well," he said, "It's beautiful there. It's all colors and parties and everyone's just…happy."

Joaquín and María were already invested. Their eyes both locked on Manolo, hands on their drinks but they didn't dare move for fear of missing a detail of the mystery that awaited beyond life.

"I saw my mother, and the first thing she did was slap me," he said. "I found probably half the Sánchez family from the past century. They're all together, you get to stay together. They all thought La Muerte would grant me life back if I asked for he help. But she lost the bet, and we had to find her in the Land of the Forgotten—"

"Land of the Forgotten?" María said.

"It's where you go if no one on Earth remembers you. You sort of just…waste away," he said and she shuddered.

"We had to pass through this thing called the Cave of Souls—"

"Now, that is what I'm talking about Manny. That sounds dramatic. Details."

"Well, they didn't tell us you had to pass a test to get down. Your intentions had to be pure, or else you'd be denied. No one passed before," he said.

"You did?" Joaquín said.

"You know me brother, I always play from the heart."

His eye caught María would budded with warmth at the words. She looked, at any second, prepared to cross the table and kiss him. For the sake of modesty in a public place and for Joaquín's sanity, she refrained. If only barely.

"We met the Candle Maker—"

"The blobby one?"

"Yes. And he agreed to help us find La Muerte. She was very loud," Manolo said. "And angry, angry and loud. She convinced Xibalba to make another wager with me for my life back. He asked me what I fear most."

"What'd you say?" Joaquín said.

"I didn't. He just looked at me and he knew. Then suddenly I was in a bullfighting arena with every single bull my family every finished coming at me at once," he said.

"Ay," Joaquín said, rubbing his head and taking a drink. "What'd you do? Sing them to sleep?"

He laughed at his joke but Manolo shrugged.

"You did not…"

Manolo took another deep drink and then swung his guitar in front of him. He plucked a few chords.

"Toro, I am humble, for tonight I understand: your royal blood was never meant to decorate this sand, you've suffered great injustice, so have thousands before you, I offer an apology and one long overdue…" he mumbled out on tune.

"And that worked? On what? Hundreds of bulls—that worked?" Joaquín said and Manolo nodded, he continued to strum aimlessly as he continued his story.

"I won and they gave me back my life. I was back in San Angel and you know the rest," he said.

Joaquín threw back what was left of his drink and plopped the empty mug onto the table. María sat quietly, sipping at her drink. Manolo lifted his own glass, gestured to Joaquín in a toast and followed suit with his drink emptying into his stomach. Manolo went back to plucking strings on his guitar in an improvised melody.

"Wait," Joaquín said. "Why'd they agree?"

"Huh?"

"I bet hundreds of dead people every day ask for their life back, what made you different? No offense," he said.

Manolo wanted to groan. Joaquín was nothing if not perceptive, when he wanted to be. But the alcohol was loosening his lips. The one thing that stayed his words was María, still present, wedged between the two of them.

"Xibalba cheated," he said.

"What?" Joaquín said.

"The wager. Xibalba, cheated."

He felt both of them looking at him again and he continued plucking strings, sliding his fingers up and down the textured metal. He switched over to strumming, playing just as lazily and slow.

"How?" Joaquín said, carefully.

"You can't guess?" Manolo gave him a rueful smirk and felt the puncture wounds in his ankles twitch to life suddenly.

"The snake."

It was María who spoke this time, and for the first time since Manolo's story began. They barely heard her over the din of the bar and she was looking at her hands. Perhaps it was best this way. She'd pretended for two weeks that nothing happened, that she hadn't cried for hours over his passing, that she didn't know what his cold and lifeless skin felt like. Perhaps it was best it happened this way.

"But…killing María he'd lose, why would—the snake was meant for you," Joaquín said, suddenly going pale, and growing more and more uncomfortable with the conversaion.

"Yes and no," Manolo said.

Manolo wanted to avoid this part. But two glasses in and he could practically feel the weight coming off his chest if he simply finished the story. The dreams might lessen and the flashes of lightning he was sure he saw when he closed his eyes would go away. In the end, letting it out, sooner rather than later, would be best, for all of them.

"He knew María would try to save me. That's why it only bit her once," he said, hitting a particularly strong chord on his guitar. "He wanted us to think she was dead."

"Why?" Joaquín said quietly.

"Because he wanted me to try and follow her," he admitted. "His snake bit me twice. It hurt, for a minute. Then everything got cold and dark. Then I opened my eyes and saw colors everywhere and they told me I died. I went looking for María and he told me she was alive. He tricked me."

He didn't expect the slap. It came hard from his left where María sat. He broke a guitar string, it snapped and went curling up and his eyes widened. He was very still and Joaquín stopped mid motion in grabbing his napkin. The rest of the bar continued on but the music from the corner ceased and suddenly the booth was a bubble without sound except for the echo of María's hand against his cheek.

He eventually turned. And her face was blotchy red, her eyes were so glassy he wondered how she saw through them. Two incriminating streaks from either eye reflected the candlelight.

And she looked betrayed, she looked scared. She was angry somewhere, her slap was evident enough of that. But above all these things, she was in pain.

"You killed yourself," she said. And Manolo felt his blood go cold in his veins not unlike being bitten and falling dead all over again.

"I didn't."

"But you let him," she said, she was shaking. "You let him kill you, did you ask him?"

"To follow you, yes."

And Manolo was on his feet. He shuffled past María and made for the exit of bar. He knew this would be a bad idea and he knew he drank too much and he hated how much the events of the previous weeks affected him so badly. He didn't want to turn around when he felt their eyes on his back. He'd return home to his wife tonight and she'd be angry. Perhaps he'd know the chill of being forced to sleep on the couch much sooner than he hoped. Perhaps she'd slap him some more, perhaps he'd sober up and feel worse than possible.

Or perhaps she followed him out.

"Manolo!"

Her voice was hoarse and tears wet her face in elegant streaks from eye to jaw. Her hands were fists and he hoped she still wasn't in a hitting mood. He stopped though, obeying the silent command. He lowered his head and tensed every muscle in his body for another smack.

"Why?" she whispered. "That's stupid. So very, very stupid. There are people who still needed you—"

"No," he shot back. "The one person who needed me was gone. They all told me it should have been me. Why don't you ask Joaquín."

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes flickering back towards the entrance of the bar. She turned the words over in her head before her eyes found his again and locked into him hard like steel.

"You don't give up your life for me," she ordered. "Even if I get struck by lightning right now. You keep going."

"You would have done the same—you did do the same!" he said. "You pushed me out of the way. You took that bite for me, just like Xibalba knew you would. Why is right for you and wrong for me?"

"Because that's the way love works Manolo! It doesn't make sense. I wouldn't watch you die in front of me and go about my life without you so I did something about it. It was rash and fast and stupid and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. You thought I was gone and so you tried to find a way to be with me. It was awful and you'd do it again! I'm furious with you because I love you!"

Her voice grew in volume until she was yelling. Some people looked out their windows and Joaquín, hanging back, but still visible in the entrance to the bar, watching nervously. She'd let a few more tears and sloppily tried to wipe them away with the back of her hand. She was fighting to suck in air at a normal pace. Manolo was still enough for both of them. Until he wasn't.

He crossed the distance between them, hands clapped onto either side of her face and her hands went immediately to his chest. And they met in the middle. In the middle of the street, in front of anyone watching, Manolo kissed her as well and hard as he could and she kissed him back. Her hand twisted in his shirt and the other went to cup the place where his jaw met his neck. She dug her fingers into his hair and pulled.

They kept it up for a few more seconds until Manolo pulled back and they stared at each other, inches between two sets of brown eyes. She was forgiving him, because she would have made the same choice, despite all senses of duty and honor, she would have made the same choice.

And when they returned to their house at the end of the night, waving goodbye to Joaquín, Manolo was happy to be welcomed into their bed without cold stares or being told to join Chuy on the couch.

"Lo siento, mir amor," Manolo said, one arm slung over her middle with his chest to her back.

"I told you, even when we fall…" she sighed. "I love you."

She yawned and fell asleep in his arms. In the morning she kissed him.


End file.
